"Yes, Philippe, when it is to hide the danger from them and to keep all the horror and all the terror for one's self alone.... Listen, Philippe!..."
The sound of firing came from the distance, on the other side of the house. For some seconds, there was an uninterrupted crackle of musketry; then it came at rarer intervals; and, presently, there was no sound at all.
Marthe whispered:
"The first shot fired in the war, Philippe.... They are fighting on the frontier.... It's your country they are defending.... France is in danger.... Oh, doesn't your heart quiver like the heart of a son? Don't you feel the wounds they are giving her ... the wounds they intend to give her?..."
He wore his attitude of suffering, keeping his arms crossed stiffly over his chest and half-closing his eyes. He answered, sorrowfully:
"Yes, yes, I feel those wounds.... But why is she fighting? For what mad love of glory? Is she not intoxicated with successes and conquests? Remember our journey through Europe.... Wherever we went, we found traces of her passage: cemeteries and charnel-houses to bear witness that she was the great victress. Isn't that enough of conquests and triumphs?"
"But, fool that you are," cried Marthe, "she is not trying to conquer! She is defending herself! Picture this vision, for a moment: France invaded once more ... France dismembered ... France wiped from the face of the earth...."
"But no, no," he said, with a gesture of protest, "there is no question of that!"
"Yes, there is, there is a question of that: it's a question of life or death to her.... And you, you are deserting!"
Philippe did not stir. Marthe felt that he was, if not shaken, at least anxious, uneasy. But, suddenly, he uncrossed his arms and, striking the table with his fist: